


Half the Fool and Twice as Precious

by bonn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonn/pseuds/bonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is fourteen and she is fifteen and they are sitting a little ways apart outside Professor Dippet’s office, and she is smiling at him because isn’t he funny, this third year who can duel as well as, if not better than her? He smiles back because he knows his name is ridiculous, but he is proud of it and she respects that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half the Fool and Twice as Precious

**Author's Note:**

> Got a bit bored at work and imagined a little life for Euphemia and Fleamont

He is eleven and she is thirteen and _Potter, Fleamont_ is sorted into Gryffindor, but Euphemia claps anyway because she is polite, and he seems enthusiastic enough. He is a first year and she is a third year, and they’re about as close as you’d expect two people who don’t know each other to be. 

He is fourteen and she is fifteen and they are sitting a little ways apart outside Professor Dippet’s office, and she is smiling at him because isn’t he funny, this third year who can duel as well as, if not better than her? He smiles back because he knows his name is ridiculous, but he is proud of it and she respects that.

He is fifteen and she is seventeen, and he hates her for ruining Gryffindor’s chances at winning the Quidditch Cup. She’s too damn good at Keeping, and the whole of Gryffindor House despises her for it, but he cheers for her anyway during the final because Merlin forbid Hufflepuff win it _again_.

He is sixteen and she is eighteen and she is graduating, but he misses it completely because he’s too busy pissing about in the dungeons with Atticus Marsch, because he’s close, he’s _so close_ to a breakthrough on _something_ , though he doesn’t know what yet (and he isn’t even nearly as close as he thinks he is). 

He is twenty-two and she is twenty-three and he thinks he could kiss the next person he sees because he finally, _finally_ , has all the permissions he needs to create and sell a new potion. Now, he thinks as he scans the crowd outside the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers’ grant department, he just has to actually figure out what his new potion _does_ exactly. He decides none of the crowd takes his fancy, though, so he skips out of the building onto the bustling Birmingham street with excitement exuding from every part of him. She is sitting on the steps in the sun and she smiles serenely up at him as he passes, and he grins back because she really does look an absolute vision of loveliness in carmine and cream.

He is twenty-four and she is twenty-six and she has just drunk him under the table, because he may be better than her at duelling, but no one can compete with Euphemia Nayak when alcohol is involved. It’s Tabitha Cartwright’s birthday, and there are dozens of guests, but Euphemia has only been talking to the funny little Gryffindor all night. 

He is twenty-four and she is twenty-six and they are eating toast on the floor of Euphemia’s kitchen at one in the morning, because they’ve been out all night and she is hungry. She kisses him with still-warm lips, and she tastes like strawberry jam, and he is bad at kissing, because at school, he always preferred to practice duelling instead. She is okay with this, because he is funny, and handsome, and a quick learner.

He is twenty-six and she is twenty-seven, and she finds him sitting on the kitchen table with uncharacteristically tame hair. She thinks his head might split clean in two by how wide he’s grinning, and she loves this precious fool more than she can say. 

He is twenty-six and she is twenty-seven, and he just about proposes on the spot when she joins him on the table and suggests she try the product on her underarm hair. She is half the fool and twice as precious, and he loves her just as much. 

He is twenty-seven and she is twenty-nine and he can’t believe how gorgeous she is as she beams at him across the altar. She’s always looked stunning in red, and today more than ever. They dance and laugh and cry and they are _married_! They are married and they are in love, they are in love, they are so in love. 

He is thirty-three and she is thirty-four and he has just received the approved patent for Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion and Scalp Treatment and he thinks he might cry because he’s been working on this damn thing since he was fifteen years old and he’s finally done it, he’s finally done it, Euphemia, so owl everyone and tell them drinks are on us tonight!

He is fifty-four and she is fifty-six and they are finally, _finally_ , after three decades, going to have a baby, and Fleamont thinks he might faint at the very thought because he isn’t ready, not at all, and he can’t sit still and _Merlin, Euphemia, are you sure_?

He is fifty-five and she is fifty-six and they are _parents_. They have a tiny son, and he is wrinkly and brown and soft and _theirs_. He is so small and delicate Fleamont is afraid to touch him, but he does anyway and he loves this little boy so much he thinks his heart might explode. 

He is sixty-five and she is sixty-seven and their James is off to Hogwarts and neither of them can hold back the tears. James, of course, is thoroughly embarrassed by his sobbing parents, but he loves them, and they love him, and they all love each other so much that they don’t know how they’ll cope until James comes home for Christmas, _if_ James comes home for Christmas. 

He is sixty-seven and she is sixty-eight and their James has been given a month’s detentions for duelling in the corridors, and Fleamont sends a howler that announces to the whole school at breakfast that he couldn’t be prouder. Euphemia sends a regular letter, and the contents are a little more serious.

He is seventy-one and she is seventy-three and their little family has one more member in the form of a reckless sixteen-year-old who is struggling to find his place in the world. James shares his bed, and Euphemia sits up at night with him, and Fleamont talks to him about things that don’t matter to keep his mind away from the people who frankly don’t deserve him.

He is seventy-two and she is seventy-three and they love all of their children, all of their four boys and Lily Evans too, because she’s around almost as often as they are, and she’s absolutely stellar at potionmaking. James tells them at the dinner table that he thinks he might be in love with her, and they couldn’t have chosen anyone more perfect.

He is seventy-four and she is seventy-five, and their son is getting married, _their James_ is getting married to the most charming young woman they’ve ever met. Lily is stunning in white and gold, and James and Sirius and Remus and Peter are all wearing their old school ties and everyone is crying but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

He is seventy-five and she is seventy-seven, and suddenly she’s not any more. But dragon pox is a deadly thing, and really, without Euphemia, there’s not much point to fighting it anymore anyway. 

He was seventy-five and she was seventy-seven, and everyone cries at the funeral. James Potter wears Sleekeazy in his hair to honour his father and he looks ridiculous but no one laughs. Lily Potter folds her arms over the swell of her stomach, where the grandson they’ll never meet is growing, and no one can seem to express their sorrow properly, so Peter Pettigrew holds her hand because James’ don’t seem to be working properly just now. The Marauders cling together like their lives depends on it, and they hug and sob and laugh and nothing’s okay and the war is still raging but they can afford to slow down for this one day, just this one day, just for now, and honour the lives of Fleamont and Euphemia Potter.


End file.
